


None More Divine

by Marvelicious (Jayjaybe)



Series: Season of Kink Challenge [1]
Category: The Wicked + The Divine
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-gig fucking, Public Sex, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4198023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jayjaybe/pseuds/Marvelicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anyone could walk in on them - just a few feet back from the corner of the stage and they’re in plain view - and what a fucking headline that would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	None More Divine

The music is thrumming through her bones, lighting her up from the inside out. The Morrigan can feel him as if in that moment - Baphomet’s growling vocals splitting the air, reverberating from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head - he’s a part of her, is _inside_ her already.

She stands just off stage, sweaty from her own performance and not-yet sated, and lets the music carry her. Sways in time and feels her desire for him build as urgently as the impulse to deliver divine.

Her pretty pale boy sings of death and damnation like a lover’s caress, sex - good, rough, filthy sex - on every syllable. He is seducer and seduced, beast and prophet. The Morrigan feels his sighs and moans against her skin, and though his hymns to indulgent self-destruction are not for her, she knows them intimately as making love.

Immune to the message perhaps, but not the siren’s song.

The mortals are blocked from her line of sight by a row of speakers, but the Morrigan wonders how many of them are on their knees, mouths watering, strung along the razor's-edge of orgasm from the force of pleasure Baphomet alone delivers. Had it been the other way around - had he brought her into their darkness with persuasion and perversion - she would have debased herself any way he’d have it. Triple queen, triple deviant.

But he is _her_ claim.

The moment he leaves the stage, lights shattering to reveal a dark deeper than the mortals can comprehend, she is on him. Hard ridges of muscle beneath her fingers sliding up his sweat-slicked skin, and a shocked - desperate - exhale as she pushes him against the side of the stage he just left. The Morrigan does not wait for him to catch his breath.

She catches his hands and forces them up, kisses the lingering fire like a drug from his lips.

Their bodies crushed together, he is hard against her hip and the Morrigan presses her advantage until he yelps. “Not just happy to see you. _Fuck_.”

The Morrigan’s hand finds his belt buckle between them, too large metal skull, and yanks at it with all of her strength. There is the unmistakable _snap_ of his belt coming apart, a clatter of bullets hitting the stage behind them, and the Morrigan tosses aside what remains in her grasp without a further thought.

“I liked that belt,” Baphomet complains, but he shudders and shuts up when the Morrigan shoves a hand between them again to tear his pants the rest of the way open.

“Less talk,” she demands, licking the salt from his collarbone before biting down, “more fuck.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Baphomet echoes. She hears the crack as he slams his head back against the stage, savors the hiss of his breath. And then his hands are on her thighs as he hoists her up, skirts tangled between them. Anyone could walk in on them - just a few feet back from the corner of the stage and they’re in plain view - and what a fucking headline that would be. But the Morrigan would have him now regardless.

She pushes aside her dress, barely covering them, and grasps her Baphomet’s cock. She is aching for it, hollow, would swallow him whole to fill the need in her if she could. If the way he moans is any indication, Baphomet knows.

The Morrigan holds him to her entrance, squeezing her legs together and relaxing them to ride the very tip of his cock against her clit. She is dripping, can feel the heat coming off of her on her fingers. Baphomet tugs her down, trying to seat her on his cock, but the Morrigan lets him fail - enjoys the long slide of him against her instead. He gasps and swears again.

“ _Please_.” She doesn’t even have to prompt him before Baphomet is begging, “Morrigan, please. Fuck, I need-”

She laughs, but leans forward and allows him to have her this time - rocks her hips down against his and gains leverage with an arm around his neck. “Oh, _yes_.”

Baphomet is leaned back, bracing himself against the stage, and if she echoes him, testing and trusting his strength, there is no space left between them. The Morrigan rakes the nails of her free hand down his chest, relishing the stretch, the heat, the overwhelmingly full sensation of her lover inside her to the hilt, and she does not hold back the sounds of her rapture.

They pierce him, she knows. Feels Baphomet tense with every noise that she makes.

“Fuck me, death-dreamer,” she commands.

“Thought you’d never ask.” His hands lift her and pull her back down, impossibly strong and steady, and Baphomet uses what leverage he can to chase her with his hips once she’s fully seated; a three count beat in ecstasy. The Morrigan tilts her hips to rub against his pelvic bone, sharp cut of muscle, and takes her pleasure from him greedily.

His breath is ragged and it sends shivers up her spine, electrifies the heat pooling in her core. It’s almost a shame they haven’t been sought out - the crowd Baphomet has whipped into frenzy untouched by the revelation of their fucking - because they are _perfect_.

They are infinite and immense, and none more divine than in this moment.

The wind whips her hair into a tangle, but does nothing to ease the inferno between them. There is flame leaking from between Baphomet’s fangs, his eyes alight, inhuman. He gasps when the Morrigan drags her claws down his exposed throat, and the marks light from the inside like a perverse jack-o-lantern.

“Morrigan,” he moans.

“No.” She knows he hasn’t feigned at sex for the past hour for nothing, but the Morrigan is unwilling to hurry herself. She has imagined the shape of his lips praying her name too long, and she will take from Baphomet everything his sinful enchantment promised.

He huffs out a shocked breath, but the Morrigan can feel him stiffen further within her. “Fuck, kiss me, Marian.”

Leaning forward against him allows for that much more sensation, that much more delightful pressure. She gasps into his mouth, but then he’s chasing it from her lips, kissing her like he means to devour.

The Morrigan bites his lip in silent warning, and herself ignores it.

She tongues her way into Baphomet’s mouth, tracing the sharp points of his fangs. They burn hot - his whole body does - and she steals the fire from him.

“Yes,” the Morrigan coaxes, “ _yes_.”

She’s growing close. The Morrigan can feel herself clenching around him on each thrust, tighter and tighter with the force of her building pleasure. And Baphomet isn’t unaffected. His fangs are digging into his lower lip, blood trickling down his chin -

“I can’t,” he gasps, swearing, as she licks the blood from his face.

“You will.”

His hips stutter beneath hers, fingers digging tight into her flesh, but he doesn’t stop. “Morrigan-”

“I am first.” She considers holding off for a moment, driving Baphomet to his absolute limit, but her own orgasm is insistent, _imminent_. The Morrigan lowers her hand between them and she can feel the urgent play of his muscles against the back of her hand as she rubs herself.

Each noise that falls from his lips makes up for the unsteady rhythm to his fucking - equally halting as deliberate now - and it sends a thrill like an electric shock through her to feel Baphomet tremble with the struggle to hold back.

And then she is gone.

Her body is as determined to wring every last bit of pleasure from him as she is - the Morrigan hears Baphomet swear in earnest as she cums, bearing down on him with the force of a goddess in triplicate. She crushes him between her legs, twists her hips and rides him until she is shrieking out further revelation.

All descends into silence around them, deeper and denser than the grave.

Baphomet flips them around before the Morrigan is fully finished riding out the aftershocks, and the air is forced from her lungs as her back hits the side of the stage, but there’s no respite. He drops his head into the crook of her neck, lets her thighs fall into the crease of his elbows so he can brace himself against the rough wood and metal construct, and fucks her hard.

He is her _animal_ , given over to need - rough, quick thrusts with little finesse that nevertheless have the Morrigan crying out in continued pleasure. She loves that she can reduce Baphomet to this: panting against her neck as he cums, holding tight to her as if he’s afraid he’ll come apart.

And he holds her there for a long moment, rolling his hips just enough to make himself shudder as they both come down, and slowly she feels him soften inside of her.

“Good?”

Baphomet doesn’t put her down, just rocks back and sinks to his knees wordlessly, taking her with him.

The Morrigan stretches her legs out, but doesn’t move from atop him either. They lie there in the grass, tangled together, and she can feel his cum dripping from between her thighs but doesn’t care enough to do anything about it.

When he laughs, she can feel the vibration in his chest. “You’re going to fucking kill me one of these days,” Baphomet assures her, “and I think I’m looking forward to it.”


End file.
